Cats in the Cradle
by seuneaeryk
Summary: Hikaru's mother watches her son grow up.


The characters and situations of Hikaru no Go (ヒカルの碁) belong to Tumi Hotta and Takeshi Obata and its pulblishers/producers. They have been used without permission, with no mean intent and no desire for remuneration. I claim nothing but love for Hotta-sensei and Obata-sensei, and a burning desire to see certain eternal rivals finally get it on. Still, please don't use, forward or archive this story without permission.

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When your son comes home, early for once, he tells you he's not hungry, that he doesn't want any dinner. Which is a surprise because he's always hungry. He also tells you he has studying to do, another surprise because he hates to study, and goes straight to his room.

It must have been a quick match, you think. He must have lost badly.

Your son is sixteen years old and he's always been your baby- affectionate and bratty, somewhat spoiled, loud and gregarious, as only those certain of love and affection can be. He takes you for granted sometimes, but you like that, because it means you're not lacking. He can't keep his room clean, and only likes certain kinds of foods, and he has the tendency to whine when he doesn't get his way. Despite all this, you're aware that he doesn't really need you very much. He doesn't even ask you for money anymore, his earnings at being a Go pro probably putting many a sarariman to shame. He loves you, that's enough. Your pride defeats your wistfulness hands down.

Hikaru is sixteen and he's growing, now all lanky limbs and unmanageable hair. His face looks different now, no longer round and cherubic but his smile is just as bright and he's got the same energy. Except for the odd moments when he looks like he's sad, mourning for something lost. You worry about that sometimes, even though it doesn't make sense. You are his mother, you've been there for every sneeze, every time he's fallen down, every time he's bumped his head. When he was six and he broke his favorite toy racecar, he came running to you crying and he didn't stop till you'd carried him in your arms and promised that you'd find a way to fix it. When you did, he laughed so loudly and hugged you so hard.

He doesn't hug you as much these days but he tells you when he's leaving, where he plans to go, and he always tells you when he plans to be back. When he returns from wherever it is he's been to - school or the Go Institute or a friend's house - he always shouts for you and lets you know. He doesn't need you to fix things now but you're his mother, you would know if something was wrong, right? You would have known if something was broken.

He doesn't talk you as much, either, but then, he's stopped talking to himself, too. Maybe that's because there are so many more people now that he can talk to now, so many new friends. He's always been a friendly boy but he's much different now. Once in a while your father or some other person tries to explain to you how amazing your son is, what a gift he has. You listen politely and agree, even if it's not for the same reasons they list. When your father boasts how, "he got that from me, you know," you smile and agree again, because you certainly know he never got it from you. He's tried to explain the game to you a few times but you've never been able to make heads or tails of any of it. It surprises you, really, that the boy who could never remember the most basic algebraic equation can calculate the end results of thousands of moves, memorize thousands of pages of kifu.

He's sixteen and he's never performed excellently in school, though there was a couple of years he did wonderfully in history. So well, in fact, that his teachers had commented on the brilliance of his essays, the detail and insights written on the pages. You remember that it was around the same time he discovered Go. You wish he'd kept that interest as well as Go. You remember worrying how he was going to survive in the world when he can't even remember to do his summer vacation homework until the last day. You still worry, even though he proves every day that you don't really need to.

He's sixteen and already he towers over you, carries bags of groceries for you as easily as you used to carry him in your arms. He's almost a man, more man that you'd ever imagined he could be or wanted him to be, at least at this age. It's obvious in the strength beginning to show in his bones, the thoughtful way his eyes sometimes look into the distance, into a future you can't see, wouldn't understand even if you could. His world has grown so much bigger, reaches so much further than your backyard, beyond the school or the playground or his grandfather's house, and his dreams much bigger than you can fathom. He plays Go constantly, he whose concentration has never been focused on anything longer than moments, and it scares you sometimes that he's decided his life already. You wish he'd give half as much attention to his schooling, spare a dream or two for college, but you're proud that he's found, that he's chosen his way.

He doesn't need you, but he loves you. You're a simple woman, really, and it's all you need to know.

When the doorbell rings, you answer it because that's what you're here for. When you open the door, you find a young man standing there, stiffly and formally, holding a Styrofoam bowl like it's an offering to the gods. You know this one by name. He's the one your son always rants about, the one who makes his eyes flash and his chin go all set and stubborn.

"Touya-kun," you greet him, waving him in, managing to deny the urge to smooth the wrinkle in his brow with the pad of your thumb. You've always wondered how such a serious young man became such good friends with your son. "I hadn't thought you liked ramen," you tease, gently, gesturing to the container. Your son loves ramen, so much that you know by sight that that's what the bowl contains, and that it came from Hikaru's favorite ramen shop.

He blushes, almost a feat because he's quite obviously cold, and the blue and pink mix, painting what was usually porcelain pale skin.

"It's for Shindou," he says, almost shyly. "For Hikaru. A peace offering."

Ah, you think. That explains it then. Why Hikaru is home so early, why he went straight to his room. They must've had another fight. But they're always fighting, those two, and it's almost tradition that every meeting ends with one of them storming out. But sooner or later Touya-kun returns, or Hikaru goes searching for his friend, and they go back to their games and their arguments. You wonder what would be so special about this fight that it would warrant an actual apology.

"You look cold, Touya-kun," you say. "Come into the kitchen and have some tea first." When he hesitates, you hold your hand out for the container. "I can heat that up and put in a bowl for you. You know he doesn't like it cold."

He hesitates again, then reluctantly hands it over. "Thank you," he says, all polite formality. You wonder again at their unlikely friendship.

"Are you alright, Touya-kun? You look troubled."

"I'm alright, Shindou-san. Thank you for asking." He smiles again, politely, the strain obvious. He probably works too hard.

You wait patiently till he's removed his shoes and hangs his coat up carefully on the coat rack.

You also win against the urge to ruffle his perfectly groomed hair.

Such a somber young man, you think again. Hikaru is good for him, too, you realize. Your son's energy and cheerfulness has always been extremely catching, his charm able to touch the coldest of hearts. Even your grouchy father can attest to that.

Touya follows you into the kitchen and sits obediently when you gesture towards a chair. He thanks you for the tea and waits patiently while you transfer the contents of his Styrofoam bowl into a soup pot. "How are your parents, Touya-kun?" you ask, just to start a conversation, just to put him at ease. "Are they still in China?"

"Yes," he answers, smiling genuinely at the thought of his parents. "Mother hopes to come home at the end of the month. She worries."

"I hope you haven't been lonely."

"Oh no, ma'am," he reassures you. "Ogata-san constantly checks up on me, making sure I'm doing well. I spend most of my free time at my father's Go salon anyway, and there are always a lot of people there."

"That's good, then." You decide that it was a mother's prerogative to do a bit of digging. "It must have been a very bad fight for you to follow him here. Bringing ramen, no less."

He blushes again and shifts guiltily. "It's complicated, Shindou-san. Hikaru's Go..."

"Oh," you laugh, waving his explanation away. "There's no use telling me any of that, I don't understand anything about it." You smile at him fondly. Two so very different young men, so passionate about a game. Sometimes it makes you wonder what it is about Go that inspires such emotions, such determination to succeed. You've tried to learn, tried to understand, but it was beyond you.

You decide that the ramen is hot enough and transfer it carefully into a earthenware bowl with a matching lid. You place the bowl and chopsticks on a tray, adding a pitcher tea and a saucer of sugar cookies.

"Don't worry, Touya-kun," you say as he stands to take the tray from you. "Hikaru can be hot-headed at times but he's really very forgiving with the people he cares about." He smiles, politely, but there's a hint of... something... in his eyes. Guilt? "You're very important to him," you add.

He blushes again, ever so slightly, his longish bangs falling over his eyes as he lowers his gaze. "He's important to me, too," he says, softly. "Thank you again, Shindou-san. I'll take this up to him now." He manages a small bow before he retreats, moving carefully, so as not to spill any of the tray's contents.

You can't help but smile at his care, at his earnestness.

You start dinner. You have a feeling Hikaru's going to want to eat after all. (He's a growing boy. A bowl of ramen barely counts as an appetizer.) Hopefully, you can talk Touya-kun into staying, too. He can be persuaded sometimes, when their games stretched on for hours and they were unwilling to halt the game. He's done it enough times that you know he has a fondness for grilled squid and your hot-and-sour soup.

Really, that boy is much too thin.

You don't hear a peep out of them, so you figure Hikaru is either being stubborn and still sulking (when adequately irate, Hikaru can pout like nobody's business) or they've made up. There weren't even sounds of pa-chi, though, and that worries you a little, but you're determined to stay away as long as possible, to let them work out on their own.

At least until dinner was ready.

"Hikaru, Touya-kun, dinner!" you call up the stairs. When there's no answer you go up the steps, hoping they haven't killed each other.

Hikaru hates it when you don't knock-you've embarrassed him far too many times, catching him arguing with himself or ranting into empty space-so you knock on the door, softly. When there's no answer you push it open.

The goban on the floor is untouched and the room is oddly still. You're confused for a moment, thinking they'd somehow left without you knowing, until you find them on the bed together, asleep. Fully clothed, totally innocent, but the fact doesn't escape you that Touya is holding Hikaru in his arms and Hikaru has his head in the hollow of Touya's shoulder. The strain is gone from Touya's sleeping face, and so is the unfamiliar sorrow in Hikaru's. Despite the peace of their slumber, you somehow suspect they've been crying.

**Oh,** you think, with a sort of quiet awe. That's why.

It's been four years since you first saw your son pick up a Go stone, since you first heard him speak Touya-kun's name. Four years of feeling like you've been pushed to the sidelines, of watching your son with a strange sort of bewildered pride. He's sixteen years old and he's gone so far, on a path neither you nor your husband could ever have predicted. He's sixteen and his own person, and you've always wondered how he got to be so strong.

In that moment, everything falls perfectly into place. You understand now. The changes your child has undergone, the purpose he's found, the path he's chosen. You understand the reason why, at sixteen, he's walking purposely, unflinchingly, towards manhood.

You close the door softly, letting them sleep.

You're a simple woman, really. You don't understand your son sometimes and you've never understood Go.

But you do understand love.

The end.

JCSA 2004


End file.
